We put the royal in royalties

I went to sit with Upstairs Aunt the other day and found her watching one of those programmes where wealthy producers low on ideas persuade a member of some obscure European royal family of dubious heritage to whore himself out on television. The idea is that ten female speaking corpses with shapely bosoms and fixed smiles peacock-it out in ball gowns and swimwear in order to persuade Prince Who? of Italy that he should pick them to drive off with him into the sunset, via the bank. This being America, the show’s producers attempted to add a touch of ‘class’ to the proceedings by giving everything a faux English aristocracy vibe. Cue cards were handed to the presenter by the ‘butler’ who, despite looking like a Chippendale, was of course called Smedrington-Pervis or something of the like. You could practically smell the baseball, fanny pack and American way on the presenter and yet he too insisted on rolling out that strange, mangled attempt at an English accent for which Hugh Grant will one day pay a heavy price - if there’s any justice left in the world.

The highlight of the show was when the ladies were requested to strut up and down the podium in swimwear (and sarongs - sense of decorum dahling) while their lives were reduced to a series of bullet points, consisting of name, interests, likes and dislikes. One woman’s selection was deliciously absurd:

Name: Candy or Tiffany or Harmony or something
Interests: Working out
Likes: Laughing
Dislikes: Mothballs. Hyper dogs.

Laughing! It’s a wonderful thing of course, but of all the likes she possibly could have mentioned she chooses this? Just imagine it:

Erin: Hey Harmony. This is like, totally random, but me and Sunset are going to the mall today to get our earlobes waxed. Wanna join?

Harmony: Aaahhh that’s too badddd Erin, I already made plans.

Erin: Oh yeah I forgot, tonight is mothball therapy, right?

Harmony: No that’s tomorrow. Tonight me and Houston are laughing.

Erin: Awesome.

The second best bit was the final section when the girls wore horrendous Gone With the Wind style ball gowns with a Mormon feel, such was the extent to which they left absolutely everything to the imagination. The women then got a minute to persuade the prince of their virtues. One woman employed garden sprinklers planted in her eyes, another sighed a lot, but the common denominator in all their addresses was the desire they expressed to ‘really understand your country and civilisation and traditions (Your Highness).’ Ladies, it’s Italy. The prince may be obscure, but last time I checked Rome wasn’t. We are hardly talking about the customs and traditions of Stykkishlmur.

Evidence that the prince might well be of genuine royal ancestry was provided by the signs of in-breeding he bore: his head was too big for his body, making him look like a fork-impaled potato. But his head matched his princess’ fake breasts in a way, ensuring a sort of universal harmony.

In other news, Yoda is advertising:

Spotted in Zamalek, but let's hope that this is some postmodern AUC student prank, rather than found art.